


Grant You All the Rest

by pax_fortuna



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Diplomatic Conventions are Hell, Gen, Gratuitous Sydney, Possession, Precursor Emissary, Wanton Destruction of National Landmarks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-16 06:11:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14158512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pax_fortuna/pseuds/pax_fortuna
Summary: After five years, the Precursors want to talk. Luckily, they already have a mouthpiece.





	Grant You All the Rest

And so, in 2040 they were negotiating. An old sandstone building by the harbour had been cleared, fenced off, ringed by guards with inefficient guns, and thoroughly under-advertised. Within sight of the water, they would bargain for humanity’s continued existence, while outside, clusters of tourists and commuters hurried on with life, glancing with only occasional suspicion at the blacked-out windows, the barricaded footpath.

Pentecost was here, and Lambert, as the highest-ranking Rangers on active duty, but otherwise Earth’s bargaining committee was stacked with ambassadors and representatives, lawyers and diplomats. A smattering of subject matter experts, hiding behind stacks of supporting documents. A funereal sea of black suits and a few dark uniforms, like a death already accepted. None of the other pilots were present – too hot headed, too invested in seeing this play out a certain way: metal buried in flesh. Total victory. Hermann Gottlieb wasn’t sure they could have such a thing, not anymore.

The Emissary was not wearing black. Seated at the most prominent of the long tables, the only representative of the invading force stood out sharply in burgundy velvet and jeans, a cocky glance down the line, and the thick-rimmed glasses no amount of interdimensional hijacking could cure Newt’s need of. It was hard to tell who had decided on the outfit – the Precursors or the man they were slowly eroding. It made Hermann’s teeth itch.

“Thing is,” said the Emissary in the patois of its host and the voice of the abyss.  “Thing is, we find that totally unacceptable.” It leant back from the microphone, a familiar look of self-satisfaction on its face, and the grinding work of political minutia began anew.

 

**

 

It was another three hours before a break was called, hours in which next to nothing was achieved but the brief lighting and immediate smothering of small hopes, the endless picking over cross-cultural definitions, and the uneasy twitching of even the steadiest trigger fingers. Hermann rose as soon as a recess was called, his leg stiff with hours of stillness, and hastened from the room before a tide of people broke over the door, before he had to see the guards lead Newton away like a man condemned.

Outside, the sun was high and life went on. There had been some talk of suspending the ferries for security purposes, but in the end secrecy won out, and the docks remained busy with passengers and boats. From the doors of the convention building down to the water, though, it was quiet and nearly empty: heavy chain-link fences kept the world away. Hermann sunk onto a bench in the sunshine, looked down at his knees, and dearly wished he had brought one of his many files to leaf through.

Then a burst of surprised sound from behind him, hastily muffled, and he turned – then quickly wished he had remained inside. Newton – the Emissary was strolling casually down the wide steps and out across the lawn, flanked by the ever-present guards. Herman froze. He hadn’t been allowed near Newton in months. None of them had. Despite those guards, despite the delicate cuffs that rested on the Emissary’s wrists, it felt as though they had essentially given Newt to the Precursors. He had become a figure of complete immunity and isolation. There were to be no attempts to reach him, to save him, to … take a compromised asset out of the equation. No threats whatsoever to the embassy in his mind, nothing that could jeopardize these talks, or show a weakness on the part of the home delegation.

So, naturally, anyone who had known Newt, anyone who cared about him was strictly banned. That didn’t stop the Emissary, however, from talking to whomever it pleased, from pouring its salt into the wound at will. It veered off the path and walked easily over to Hermann, head titled almost curiously to the side, dark glasses now hiding its eyes.

“So,” it said, in a voice terribly close to normal, “shall we walk?”

Hermann just nodded, rose to his feet, and followed a few steps behind as the Emissary continued down to the low iron fence at the harbour’s edge. It leant casually against the railing, scuffing a shoe on the ground. Light shattered off the water in blinding fractals, washing out Hermann’s vision. One of the guards took half a step forwards and the Emissary rolled a shoulder, as though to dismiss any attempt at restraint. It was a strangely sinuous movement, full of thinly veiled potential.

“Beautiful,” it said, peering out across the choppy waves, over to the yellow ferries and the shattered sails of the Opera House, temporarily patched with panes of blue glass. A witness to destruction – a memorial, rather than a renewal. That was still to come. Maybe.

Hermann had a number of things he wanted to say to his creature, to the man trapped somewhere behind its machinations, but none of them were in the spirit of interdimensional cooperation, and all of them had the potential to unleash retaliation on Newton, so he held his tongue. Squinted into the glinting break of the water. The Emissary smiled, apparently pleased with what it read in the silence.

“Perhaps when we’re finished here, we’ll give him back to you,” it said, and lowered the sunglasses, chains chinking gently.

Close up, its eyes were bloodshot and exhausted, its shoulders suddenly hunched and defeated. For a moment, Newt stood there, wrung out and swaying, blinking groggily in sudden sun. Hermann darted to steady him, a hand at Newt’s elbow, voice stuck in his throat. Newt’s hands jolted spasmodically against the chains, once, like a death shudder, like he too meant to reach out – and then he was gone again.

Hermann pulled back too fast and stumbled. The Emissary smiled slowly.

“But then perhaps,” it said easily, “it would be kinder not to.”

Hermann said nothing as he turned away, holding tight to the brief glimpse of Newton’s mind: still there, still fighting. In silence and dazzling sunshine, they, all three, stared out across the harbour, and the ruins.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, we are holding a secret political summit in the Modern Art Gallery. Do not question this. 
> 
> Title from Wittgenstein's 'On Certainty'.


End file.
